It is Sunday afternoon. My wife is away for a week at a poetry summit in California. No food in the fridge, dishes in the sink, bed unmade. Too much TV.
My daughter is engrossed in the music scene of Brooklyn, hard at work on her new CD. My parents are unhappy in their new retirement home. My sister and I are powerless to make them happier. My Blackberry doesn’t work. I can’t send emails from my home computer. My car had a flat tire last Monday. My lawn is brown. I never know how much money I’ll make. Should I continue?
Nevertheless, I am excited about my work. I have the chance to work with scientists on their scientific presentations, with CEOs on their leadership communication, with consultants on how to move the mountain of client opinion, and with all kinds of people who want to grow and expand their personal and professional horizons.
I have plans for a public seminar, a new book, and I love my office almost as much as I like my home. My assistant is fabulous. All this is good.
I just need to learn how to walk the tight rope between things as they are and things as I’d like them to be. I need to keep my eye on the prize and not look down at the terrifying things I imagine will happen if I misstep.
I am told that I should live in the present moment, and I try. But I find myself lost in thought a good deal of time.
Maybe that’s a start. To find myself lost is to begin to figure out where I am—which is somewhere in thought, somewhere in my head.
I want to be in other people’s heads, not my own. Which means I have to get busy and do stuff that’s interesting.